


Something from Nothing

by DefinitelyYou



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: An excuse to play in this world, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dancing, Fluff, M/M, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Canon, Snogging, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 18:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20747027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefinitelyYou/pseuds/DefinitelyYou
Summary: “Baz! I’ve been waiting for at least 20 minutes. Can you please hurry up?” I shout to the bathroom door.No response.I shouldn’t be surprised. Not only is Baz notoriously particular when it comes to his appearance, but he’s also playing The Cure at top volume. When I knocked on the door earlier, he refused to open it or turn down the music, mumbling a response about getting in the mood for the evening.The thing is, I’m not sure if I’m in the mood for this evening (no matter how good Baz looks or how loud he plays his music). Baz is taking me clubbing (yes, clubbing, which means dancing, which means disaster for me). And I don’t think I’ve been this nervous since I went to the Leaver’s Ball last May.For some reason, he thinks it might help me. Me. The person who can barely shuffle along with a slow dance. My therapist agrees with him, thinks trying something new that doesn’t involve thinking will be good for me. Maybe they’re right, but it doesn’t make me any less nervous. (God, what are they thinking?)





	Something from Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> I read Carry On for the first time just a month ago and fell in love with the characters and the world, so I've spent the last month sorting through this amazing fandom and reading any and all stories I could. There are too many amazing writers and stories out there to name, but I've been inspired by everyone's writing and creativity--and sheer love for these characters. And somewhere along the way this story popped into my mind (I think it started when I read a story about Dev and Niall taking Baz out dancing--and now I can't find it for the life of me. Kudos to its author.) It's silly and angsty and probably a bit too cheesy, but I've had great fun writing it.
> 
> I wanted to get this posted before Wayward Son comes out tomorrow, so I may have rushed it a bit (and posted it as one heck of a long chapter). Thanks to any and all who take the time to read this. I hope you enjoy my first (rather long) venture into the world of Simon Snow. 
> 
> And it goes without saying, all characters below got Rainbow Rowell. I'm just dipping my toe into this wonderful world she created.

**Simon**

“Baz! I’ve been waiting for at least 20 minutes. Can you please hurry up?” I shout to the bathroom door.

No response.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Not only is Baz notoriously particular when it comes to his appearance, but he’s also playing The Cure at top volume. When I knocked on the door earlier, he refused to open it or turn down the music, mumbling a response about getting in the mood for the evening.

The thing is, I’m not sure if I’m in the mood for this evening (no matter how good Baz looks or how loud he plays his music). Baz is taking me clubbing (yes, clubbing, which means dancing, which means disaster for me). And I don’t think I’ve been this nervous since I went to the Leaver’s Ball last May.

He thinks it will cheer me up. I think it will only make me feel worse. I can’t dance, and I’m not in the mood to watch people ogling my boyfriend. (And they will. Ogle that is. You just can’t help it.) But I appreciate the effort.

Adjusting to my new life without magic isn’t easy. Well at least some of it isn’t. Baz. Our relationship. That’s easy, easier than I ever imagined it could be. He’s thoughtful, romantic, loyal, wickedly funny, and heartbreakingly vulnerable all at once. (Though he’s still an entitled brat, but he can’t help it. Really.) (And ridiculously fit. Did I mention how fit he is?) And living with Penny is better than I ever imagined it would be. But living without magic (AND with wings and a tail) and losing the security of Watford and the Mage. Well, that’s not easy.

Even though I’m better than I was a few months ago (I’m not lying on the coach all day eating crisps or lost in my thoughts), there are still times when it all becomes too much for me. I feel as if could explode any minute. It’s the same feeling I had before my magic would go off, but there’s no release. And I don’t know what to do with myself. A caged dragon. That’s what I feel like.

And that’s how we got to tonight. Me sitting on our living room couch, dressed in the nicest clothes I’ve worn in ages, waiting for my boyfriend to emerge so we can “hit the club,” as he says. I never knew that Baz liked to dance. It’s just not something we ever discussed or did at Watford (aside from the Leaver’s Ball). But I guess it’s one of the ways he let off steam when he wasn’t at school. And for some reason, he thinks it might help me, too. Me. The person who can barely shuffle along with a slow dance. My therapist agrees with him, thinks trying something new that doesn’t involve thinking will be good for me. Maybe they’re right, but it doesn’t make me any less nervous. (God, what are they thinking?)

“Crowley, Baz, if you’re not out here in 10 minutes, I’m not going!” I shout.

The last word is barely out of my mouth when the bathroom door opens. Before I can see Baz, I can smell him. Cedar and bergamot, stronger than normal. I stand up to greet him as he saunters out. He’s wearing tight black jeans that end at his ankles, paired with stylish black Oxfords, a slate blue silk button down shirt, neck open one button too far, French-tucked. (I just learned that term from Baz. Made fun of me for days, the wanker.) The color a perfect complement to his grey eyes. His black hair is down, a few waves falling over his eyes, exactly how I love it. Everything I was thinking before, every doubt I had about tonight, disappears.

**Baz**

Simon Snow is staring at me, totally slack jawed (mouth breather) and utterly speechless. Perfect.

**Simon**

I can’t take my eyes off him. Delicious is the only word that comes to mind. My mouth starts to water, and I swallow. I can’t help myself.

**Baz**

And then he swallows in that ridiculous way of his (his Adam’s apple bobbing and his neck muscles rippling). It takes every ounce of control I have to not to snog him silly. But I’m nothing if not controlled. I take a long look at him instead, willing my face expressionless.

I did this on purpose. Leave him out here waiting for nearly half an hour. I was ready 15 minutes ago, but I spent the extra time catching up on texts from my Aunt Fiona who’s in Prague. (Crowley, I AM a plotting prat.) I wanted him eager. I wanted him to see me and forget every insecurity about tonight that he’d been mulling over the last few days. And I think it worked.

“Snow, you changed,” I say as nonchalantly as possible.

“Oh, yeah. I, ah, wanted to be a bit more comfortable,” his response is flustered.

“You look good,” I reply walking over to him. “Really good,” I say again, this time following it up with a kiss on my favorite mole on his left cheek. He smells as good as he looks. Like freshly cut wood and spice. No trace of the smoke and brimstone that clung to him for years. I take a step back to give him a full look over, and he’s smiling sheepishly at me.

“The jacket you gave me made my wings feel weird, and my tail kept slipping out of my pants, so I, you know, found something different,” he says, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “I know you really liked that outfit, but, I don’t know. It wasn’t working for me.”

“No one can see your wings and tail, Snow, thanks to Bunce, so it’s OK if they slip out of your clothes.”

“I know that,” he says a bit frustrated, “but I wasn’t comfortable. If you want me to dance tonight, Baz, I at least have to be comfortable.”

“Point taken, Snow,” I say smiling softly at him. “I actually like this better, especially the jeans.”

He’s wearing a tight grey rugby shirt, neck buttons undone and sleeves rolled up, with dark jeans that hug his hips perfectly, and brown boots. The ones that end right above his ankles and leave just enough skin between them and his cuffed jeans to make you want more. It’s perfect. He’s perfect. And it’s going to be torture enduring the stares he’s going to get tonight.

“Ready?” I ask

“As I’ll every be,” Simon says grabbing his phone off of the kitchen table.

I grab my car keys and phone, take his hand (slightly clammy, a little shaky). Just as we reach the door, Bunce flings it open and takes a long look at us.

“Stevie Nicks and Grace Slicks! You two look amazing,” she exclaims. “And trouble. Why do you two always look like trouble when you’re together?”

“A vampire mage and a dragon in disguise. We are trouble, Bunce,” I say back to her dryly.

She rushes past us and into the apartment she shares with Simon, arms full of books. And then she stops dead in her tracks. “Wait, is tonight the big night?” She asks turning to us.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say with a smirk.

“Clubbing, Penny, we’re going clubbing,” Simon responds. “And please tell me you’ll be here when I embarrass Baz so much he sends me home early.”

“Bullocks. You can’t embarrass me, Snow. Especially not in those jeans,” I say with a smirk, making Simon blush.

“Simon, there’ll be so many people there no one will pay any attention to your dancing. And Baz is right—those jeans are distracting,” she says winking at me.

“Will you two stop objectifying my ass!” Simons growls.

“Fine, fine,” Penny relents. “I’m actually going to my parents’ tonight. I just brought these books home from the library. So stay out as late as you want, no need to worry about annoying me with your incessant snogging. Have fun,” she says brushing us out the door.

“Just so we’re clear. Snow. I’ll never stop objectifying your ass. It’s just too perfect even with that blasted tail,” I say leading the way down the stairs.

I hear him chuckling behind me. The night’s off to a good start.

**Simon**

The last time I followed Baz Pitch into a London club was almost a year ago, when we were hunting for his mother’s murderer. This club isn’t much different in terms of atmosphere (it’s dimly lit and crowded) but the people on the dance floor, at the bar, and in the booths along the sides are completely different. Full of life and energy. I shouldn’t be surprised—the previous club was a vampire hangout, this is simply a club where people come to dance, get drunk, hook up.

Baz is right at home (the wanker), heading straight to the bar, me following close behind. The way he moves through the room, like he’s the fucking king of everything, does remind of last year. And I love it. I know that his confidence, his indifferent attitude, can be a mask for his insecurities, but not tonight. He likes it here, he’s comfortable, I can tell. And I have to give this a chance, regardless of my dancing abilities (or how much I hate it) (or I think I hate it).

He orders a shot of Angels Envy whisky (arrogant prat), neat, and a pint of Newcastle for me. And then he leads me to a table at the edge of the dancefloor. We don’t talk, but I know he’s keeping a close eye on me even though his gaze is on the dancefloor. He hasn’t taken a drink of his whisky yet, but I’ve managed to down at least half of my drink.

After a few minutes, he leans in close to my ear and asks, “What do you think, Snow?”

A chill runs down my spine. He has a wicked look in his eye, and he smells so damn good. It’s now or never. I lean into him, run my lips along his neck until I reach his ear and ask, “Want to dance with me, Baz?”

**Baz**

Simon Snow just asked me to dance. Crowley, that was unexpected.

**Simon**

The wicked look in his eye turns into a wicked grin, eyes flashing. He downs his Angels Envy and saunters out to the dance floor, the crowd parting for him (fucking perfect prat). I follow.

**Baz**

I came to this club a lot the summer before eighth year at Watford. (Anything to kill the time and keep my mind off of Snow. It never worked.) I’m used to the looks I get when I dance, from both men and women alike. Call it the vampire thrall or my footballer’s thighs or a good head of hair or whatever the fuck it is, but I always took advantage of it. I’ve danced with dozens of people in a night—or just one, depending how bronze his curls were or if his eyes were the right shade of blue—but not tonight, not anymore. Tonight, I’m here with Simon (I’m here for Simon), and we are a sight to be seen. The dancefloor parts like the Dead Sea.

I can tell that Simon is nervous. He’s close behind me, and I can feel his anxiety. He may not have his magic any longer, but his emotions fill the space his magic once did. I turn to him when I make it to the middle of the floor and smile (a real smile, one I reserve just for him), and I see and feel him relax. Ironically, “Relax” by Freddie Goes to Hollywood starts to play.

**Simon**

“Relax.” Are you kidding me? How can I relax when the entire dance floor is looking at us, and I my feet feel like they’re frozen in place. Baz smirks and raises an eyebrow at me. And then he starts to move.

**Baz**

I move to the beat, let it pull me closer to Simon, work my way around and behind him. I put my hands on his hips and begin to move them with me. He lets me, leans back into me, and follows my lead. I was expecting more hesitation, more of a fight. This is even more unexpected. And Crowley, it’s glorious.

**Simon**

Watching Baz dance is like watching him play football—he’s graceful, perfect, and fucking ruthless, every move calculated for full effect. I can’t take my eyes off of him. When I feel his hands on my hips and he moves in close to me, I give in. To the pulse of the music. To Baz’s movements. I let go, and it feels so fucking good.

**Baz**

This is what I wanted, a moment where Simon could focus on something other than the trauma and loss of the last year, let go of his mind and simply be. With me. I let my body take control, moving with and around Simon. He has no idea how beautiful he truly is—hair curling in all directions, lithe muscles visible underneath his rugby, and that damn ass—and he’s mine. The thought still takes my breath away.

We dance for Merlin knows how long, and the longer Simon’s on the dance floor, the more comfortable he becomes. He’s soon venturing away from me, circling in an out of other dancers, totally lost in the beat. He always comes back to me, moving in behind me for moment, trailing his hands along my chest, or simply catching my eye and giving me a wicked grin. And he’s truly radiant—amber hair glistening, golden skin glowing. Not the way it did when his magic came to the surface, but it’s better somehow, stronger. More real.

A slower song begins. (“Cure for Pain” by Morphine, one of Fiona’s favorites. Lucky me, it must be New Wave night.) I make my way back to Simon and lazily kiss my favorite mole on his neck. He grabs my hips and pulls me into him and growls. I look into his eyes, and they are wild. I can’t tell if it’s the lights on the dance floor or desire or both, but he’s looking at me like I’m a snack. I smirk, and he immediately grabs my face in his hands and kisses the smirk away.

It doesn’t take long before we’re full on snogging and grinding in the middle of the dance floor. I’ve never done anything like this before. Not the kissing in public part—Simon and I kissed on the dance floor at the Leaver’s Ball last spring, which was more public than any London night club—but the get each other off in a throbbing mob of Normals part. Each time I open my eyes, I see more people staring at us, watching us move. It’s exciting in a voyeuristic way (that’s new for me), but it makes me nervous, too. This is a more attention than I like calling to myself. Simon, on the other hand, isn’t paying attention to anything but me. I chide myself for thinking too much, close my eyes, and let Simon take the lead. It feels too good to stop.

**Simon**

The music feels so good. Flowing through me. And Baz feels even better. His lips, his hands, his legs, the way I can feel his muscles writhing against me. I’m almost delirious with it. I can feel eyes on us, but I don’t care. All I care about is him, touching him, moving with him, letting him feel how much I want him, Normals be damned.

The song comes to an end too soon, and we stop dancing but don’t move apart from each other, just stand still, breathing together. He trails kisses up my neck and then stops to whisper.

“Thank you, Simon.”

“Jesus, Baz, why didn’t you bring me here ages ago? I wouldn’t have eaten so many damn crisps!”

He pulls away, laughing, full mouthed and deep chested. He’s beautiful when he lets himself open up like this.

“How about I get us another drink, yeah?” I ask.

“Yes. Mind if I stay here?”

“Nah, I’ll be back right,” I say and squeeze his ass for good measure. He jumps in surprise, and it’s my turn to smirk.

I head to the bar as a new song begins to pulse in the background. I order another Newcastle for me and Angels Envy for Baz. Before heading back to the dancefloor, I stop at an open table and take a quick break. I’m having such an amazing time, and I honestly can’t believe it. I was dreading this night. Right now, I just want to take it all in. Who would of thought I’d be here, tonight, doing this with Basilton Pitch? I now know that all of the hate I actually felt towards him all those years was more than likely love . . . or at least lust. But I can’t help but think about all the fun we could have had at Watford. Together. I shake my head. I can’t go down this road tonight or ever. We’re together now. “So go be with him, you thick idiot,” I say to myself and grab the drinks.

I’m half-way to the dancefloor when I see him. Some golden-haired bloke making a move on Baz. Saddling up behind him, trying to get in close. I’ve seen him watching us tonight, and I guess he thought it was time to make a move. Baz just keeps slipping away, but the bloke won’t give up. And that’s when I feel it. It’s not my magic, but it’s similar. A burning heat making its way from my stomach to my extremities, clouding my vision. I feel like I’m going to go off. (And then I do.)

“Oi!” I say (loudly, too loudly) as I take the last few steps to the dancefloor, abandoning our drinks at a random table. Baz hears me. He catches my eye and gives me a confused look. I know he can handle himself, but I don’t care about that. He and I are clearly together and some wanker doesn’t get to make a move on my boyfriend. No fucking way is that happening.

“Oi!” I say again, this time right behind the bloke. He stops dancing and turns to look at me. “That’s my boyfriend there, yeah.”

“Good for you, mate,” he responds and turns back around. I literally see red.

“I said, that’s my boyfriend, so move the fuck along,” I growl.

Baz has stopped moving all together and is watching me without an ounce of emotion evident on his face.

“Or what?” the wanker responds. “You’re going to hit me? I don’t think he needs rescuing, especially not by you.”

My fingers start to tingle, and my hands instinctively curl into fists. “What did you say?”

“Simon,” Baz says low enough to avoid a scene, but loud enough for me to hear him. It’s a warning, I can tell, and I avoid making eye contact with him.

“I said that your friend here doesn’t need you. He can handle himself just fine,” the arsehole says, winking at Baz. He has no idea who—or what—he’s dealing with.

Baz rolls his eyes dismissively, but I can’t shake my annoyance. “Move. The. Fuck. Along,” I say through clenched teeth, fists at the ready. But he’s not budging, just takes another step closer to me and then says so that only I can hear, “I’ve seen him here before, your mate. I’ve danced with him, too. He tastes just as delicious as he looks.”

And that’s all it takes. My hand flies up to punch him but hits Baz’s open hand instead. How did he get here so quickly?

“Enough is enough,” he says with magic. He doesn’t have his wand, but the effect is the same. The music is still playing, but no one is dancing now. I look up at Baz, and I’m greeted with a cold expression that I haven’t seen in at least a year. Shite.

I can see the wanker standing behind Baz with a shocked look on his face. I notice more people with confused expressions. And then I realize that Baz must have moved so quickly to stop my punch that he’s confused everyone around us. Damn vampire speed.

“Let’s go, Snow,” he says coldly. “I think we’re done for the night.”

I nod, still not looking at him, and he walks around me and off the dancefloor. Just as I turn to go, I hear the wanker say loud enough for all to hear, “It looks like you’re the one who needs rescuing now.” I turn around and punch him in the nose. I think I break it.

**Baz**

What. The. Fuck. Snow.

Did he really think I needed him to get that arsehole away from me. I’m a vampire for fucks sake. The wanker was right, I can handle myself. I know it was jealousy, and as sweet as that is, he made a scene and then provoked me to act like the monster I am, drawing me into this ridiculous display.

I have no idea if he’s following me or not. I heard the punch and the sickening crunch of bone, but I kept on walking. I wasn’t going to turn back. I’m a Pitch. We don’t abide scenes unless we’re the ones making them.

I head straight out the door and to the valet stand. While I wait for the car to be brought around, I still don’t look back. I have no idea if Simon is fighting or nursing a beer, and I don’t care (well, I tell myself I don’t care). If he makes it out by the time the car’s here, fine. If not, he can handle himself.

This not how I thought the evening would end.

**Simon**

I see the security guards moving towards me seconds after I make contact with the wanker’s nose. I’m sure they’d been watching the scene unfold. I immediately throw up my hands in surrender.

“I’m going, I’m going,” I say to them once they make it to me.

“Hold on,” one says as he steps in front of me. The other pulls the wanker up off the floor, assessing the mess.

“This is over,” I say. “Can I just go now?”

I’m anxious to catch up to Baz. I don’t expect him to wait for me, not with the look he gave me, but I also don’t want to leave without him if I can help it. I want to explain what happened.

“Hold on,” the security guard say. His mate gives him a quick nod of the head, and he turns back to me. “Get on then,” he grumbles.

I immediately turn to leave, but before I get three steps away, the guard yells, “Hey!”

I turn quickly and am greeted with an elbow to my nose. Not hard enough to knock me down or to break anything, but hard enough to give me one hell of a bleeder.

“Oi!” I yell back. “I was leaving!”

I roll down the sleeve of my shirt quickly and try to staunch the bleeding. Fuck, this is just what I need. A nose bleed and an angry vampire. This night just can’t get any better.

“Sorry, mate,” the security guard says as he leans down to check my nose. “Your friend tried to pull a punch on you, and I was trying to stop him. Didn’t mean to knock you.”

I nod in response.

“OK?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say before making my escape. I grab a stack of napkins on the bar as I make my way out and stuff them in my nose. It’s not broken, but it hurts like hell, and the bleeding doesn’t seem to be slowing down. Brilliant.

**Baz**

I should have just left, gone home. Simon would have made his way to the flat eventually. But I didn’t. (Pathetic, that’s what I am. No matter how angry Simon makes me, I can’t ever abandon him). And now I see him run out of the club with a blood-stained shirt and a nose stuffed with napkins.

I should have just gone home.

**Simon**

Baz isn’t waiting for me outside of the club. I didn’t expect him to be, but I hoped he might stay. My hands are covered in blood, but I manage to dig out my cell phone from my back pocket without dirtying it up too much and attempt to call Penny for a ride home.

“Get in the car, Snow,” I hear in that familiar tone. My shoulders relax just a bit. I look up and see Baz in his BMW coupe. (Dark green, a gift from his father for graduation.) (He loves it almost as much as he loves me.) (Maybe more.) He’s got his window rolled down, making it that much easier for me to see his sneer. I start to make my way to the passenger side of the car, but he stops me in my tracks.

“No, the back,” he barks.

“Why?” I ask turning around.

“I don’t need your blood all over the console of my new car. Get in the back.”

“Yeah, yeah. Right,” I say, it suddenly dawning that he probably doesn’t want to sit so close to me while I’m actively bleeding.

I get in the backseat and slide over behind the passenger seat so that I can see him in the rearview mirror. He doesn’t even wait for my door to properly shut before he’s pulling away. I don’t say anything, just wait for him to catch my eye in the mirror. I count to 30 before he finally looks back at me. I think I see concern there for a moment, but it quickly vanishes.

“You didn’t believe him, did you?” he asks coldly.

“What?”

“The man you hit. You didn’t believe him when he said he’d danced with me, tasted me.”

“No, of course not,” I respond angrily, annoyed that Baz can hear better than Normals. Damn vampire.

“Good,” he says. “Then why did you hit him?”

I wait at least a minute or more before responding. When I think about what he said to me after Baz left, I can feel the anger welling again.

“He told me that I needed rescuing.” I say, looking out the window, trying to calm myself down.

Baz doesn’t say anything in response. We drive in silence for a bit and then he leans over and pulls something out of the glove box.

“Here,” he says and hands me a white handkerchief, identical to the one he gave Agatha all those months ago. I look up at him confused. “For your nose,” he says with a touch of concern.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Did he hit you?” Baz asks again.

“No. The fucking security guard. I turned at the wrong time and got an elbow to the nose,” I say. Baz nods.

We drive in silence the rest of the way home.

**Baz**

Simon Snow is the last person who needs rescuing. But I know he doesn’t believe that. At least not after everything. And the arsehole at the club knew just how to push his buttons—fueling Simon’s jealousy and insecurities with a blatant lie and then implying that he’s weak—and it worked. Too damn well. Simon follows a few feet behind from me as I stomp up the stairs. I can still feel his anger, and I know that I need to ready myself for a fight.

I unlock the front door and step aside to let him in. He follows, holding his nose with one hand.

“Why don’t you clean up,” I say. “Then we talk.”

**Simon**

Talk? He wants to talk? What is there to talk about? Some wanker tries to make a move on him right in front of me and then accuses me of being a damsel in distress. Of course, I was pissed. Wouldn’t he be if it happened to him?

**Baz**

I have no idea what I want to say to Simon. I was just stalling to gather my wits about me—and get away from the blood. I don’t care that he was jealous (it even makes me feel good), but I do care that he was so easily bothered by some random bloke who doesn’t matter. That it got under his skin so easily. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. Simon never backed away from a fight. And maybe the fact that he was confident enough to take it on is a good sign. Until it wasn’t. Fuck. What am I going to say to him?

**Simon**

I’ve managed to get my nose to stop bleeding and am washing my hands when I see Baz in the doorway, looking bored. I know he’s not. He’s just trying to cover up whatever emotion is going through his mind. I’ve finally realized that the more bored he looks the more upset I know he is. I square my shoulders, bracing for whatever comes next.

“OK Snow?” he asks.

“Yeah, just hurts is all,” I say pointing to my nose. “But it’s not broken.”

I turn to face him and see that he has his wand in his hand.

“What’s that for?” I ask motioning to his wand with my chin.

“I thought I could spell your shirt clean. It’s the least I can do for my hero,” he says with a smirk.

“Don’t.” I say back annoyed.

“Don’t what? Spell your shirt clean?”

“Yeah. That. And don’t call me your hero,” I say, my tone getting sharper by the word. “I’m not your hero.”

“Well, you sure acted like you wanted to be a hero tonight, Snow. Of all people, I’m not the one who needs rescuing.”

“And I do?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you did.”

“No, I didn’t,” he says, walking further into the room. “And I need to clean your shirt, Snow, before the scent of your blood makes me do something I may regret.”

“I said no fucking magic, Baz,” I growl.

“Snow, I am magic,” he says, his anger rising as well.

“I don’t want fucking magic,” I yell, and I see Baz’s composure break just for a second. And it’s as if that momentary weakness is all that I need. I pounce. “I hate that you and Penny think you need to help me with everything, hide my wings or clean my shirt. I’m not helpless. And I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“I think you’re confusing basic kindness with pity, Snow,” he says sharply.

This back and forth. This antagonism I know, I understand. It feels familiar, and I can’t help the words that come out next.

“Jesus, Pitch, I’m trying here, I really am. But putting my life back together is fucking hard, and you’re not helping. I lost everything in a single night, Baz. My magic. My mentor. My home. But maybe you wouldn’t understand that. You got everything you ever wanted. Top in class, avenging your mother, me. How’s that feel, mate?”

I’m breathing hard by the time I’m done. Baz hasn’t stepped away but all emotion has drained away from his features. He’s as still and cold as a statue.

“Everything, Snow. Really?” he says calmly. Too calmly.

“What?”

“You said you’ve lost everything. Do you mean that?”

“Yeah, I do. I mean I started last year as the Chosen One with a girlfriend and a future head of me. And now, it’s all gone, except for blasted wings and a tail. Nothing is left of that life.”

“Nothing?” Baz asks looking me straight in the eye.

I don’t say anything as the realization of what I just said starts to sink in. But it’s too late. Baz takes my silence for agreement.

“Well then, I greatly misunderstood the nature of our relationship, Snow,” he says and walks out of the bathroom and straight out the front door.

Fuck. What the fuck did I just do.

**Baz**

I keep my composure until I’ve made it out of the flat and onto the landing. And then the tears start to fall. I have every intention of walking down the stairs, but I’m stuck. I can’t make myself move. I’m pathetic.

I can hear Simon start to curse inside the flat. I even hear him throw a few things in the bathroom. The thick idiot finally realized what the said. (That doesn’t make it hurt any less.) Instead of leaving, I lean back on the wall and slide myself down until I’m sitting just outside the door. I hang my head between my legs and wish the world away.

I hear Simon before I see him, rambling down the hall knocking into anything and everything in his way. He swings open the front door calling my name and immediately trips over my feet, nearly falling head first down the stairs before catching himself on the railing.

“I’m here, Snow,” I mumble at him.

“I thought you left,” he says, righting himself.

“I tried. I can’t,” I whisper, my head still hanging between my legs.

Simon sits down beside me, but keeps his distance, thankfully. I couldn’t take his affection now, not after what he said.

“Why?” he asks.

“You know why, Snow.” I say crossly.

“Enlighten me, Baz,” he says equally cross. And then more gently, “I don’t think I have my wits about me tonight. Too much gay dancing,” he says trying to be funny. It isn’t. Not really.

I sigh. I don’t know where to begin, so I just start to ramble.

“Do you know what I did to keep myself sane when I was locked up with the numpties? What I did when I thought I it might be better to just let myself die? I thought of you. Your hair. Your eyes. Your strength. It was the only thing that kept me hanging on. You. You were my tether to this world.”

I’ve never told Simon that (I’ve never told anyone that), but he needs to know, even if I can’t bring myself to look him in those boringly beautiful blue eyes. I’ll break if I do.

“You’re right. I did get everything I wanted last year,” I start again. “I avenged my mother, earned top in class, and finally kissed you, loved you. But that doesn’t bring back my mum or make me fully human. And my dad is still in denial that I’m queer. But I have you, Simon. The only person I’ve ever chosen to love. You are my everything.”

I stop for a moment and take a breath.

“And when your everything tells you that you’re nothing, well, I don’t know what to do with that,” I whisper. “But I still can’t bring myself to walk away from you.”

**Simon**

Baz is crying. I can’t see his face—he hasn’t looked at me yet, arms on his bent knees, head hanging between his legs—but I feel his ragged breathing, see the tears drop on the floor between his feet. And all I can think to say is “I am the biggest fucking idiot in the world.” So I do.

“Baz, I am the biggest fucking idiot in the world,” I say gently. “I didn’t call you nothing. Or I didn’t mean to. And if I did, I’m sorry.”

I move in front of him now, lifting his chin so that I can look him in the eyes. They’ve lost their luster and are a dull grey, even though glisten with tears, and he looks utterly defeated. Nearly as devastated as that night in the forest. I want to kiss him. That’s always fixed things before. But I think tonight may be different. So I use my words.

“I had nothing. When I first came to Watford. And then I believed I got everything I ever wanted. I was the Chosen One. I had magic, a home, the Mage, Penny. I even had an arch nemesis,” I say with a smirk. “Things you dream of when your 11 years old but never think you’re going to get. At least not where I came from. And I got them. And it was amazing. But I know now that most of it wasn’t real. I wasn’t the Chosen One. The Mage was using me. My magic wasn’t, well, mine. I lost it all. And it hurts, Baz. I loved magic—I still love magic—but I’m back to where I started. Before Watford. I’m back to nothing.”

Baz grimaces, and his eyes storm over, so I quickly jump in before he tries to fight. Or leave. Or both. (He says he can’t leave, but I know he can. He’s the strongest person I know. Just look at what he’s done to survive.)

“But I was wrong to say that, Baz. I said it out of anger and frustration. What I should have said is I’ve got nothing except you. And Penny. But mostly you. You are my everything, too.”

And I stop and let that sink in.

Baz’s face doesn’t change. I’ve become pretty good at knowing what he’s thinking, but not now. He’s built his defenses back up, and I’ve got to knock them down again. At least I’m good at knocking things about.

“I mean it, yeah? I still get angry about what happened, but I’d rather get angry about it than sulk or fall into a depression like before. I can’t change what happened, but I can rage against it. At least for a little while. But my feelings for you haven’t changed. I want to be with you. I will always want to be with you. And I’m sorry.”

Baz doesn’t say anything, but I let go of his chin, and he doesn’t look away from me. That’s a good sign, right? I slump against the stair railing, utterly exhausted, nothing left to say.

“What about the girlfriend?” he asks quietly.

“What?”

“The girlfriend. You said you started last year with a girlfriend and a future ahead of you.”

“Fuck, I don’t even remember saying that.”

“Well, you said it,” he says, his whole demeanor challenging me. “Is it true?”

“What?”

“Come on, Snow. Don’t make me do all the work. Do you not see a future ahead of you? A future with ME?” he growls.

“Yeah. . . Yes. I do,” I say quickly and then take a moment to think about, really think about my future. “I do have a hard time picturing it, my future. What will I do with my life? What will YOU do with your life? You’re the fucking heir to the House of Pitch, do you see me fitting in there? At that Victorian . . .”

“Gothic,” he interrupts with a sneer.

“Gothic, Victorian, whatever. Your parents won’t even talk about you being gay. What they hell will they do with your boyfriend? Especially when it’s me. All I know is that I have no idea where I fit into any of this.”

“I don’t care about my parents, Simon. At least not the living ones,” Baz spits out.

“But it’s more than that, Baz. No one ever took the time to teach me about life outside of Watford. I just got thrown back into some home every year and had to make my way. The Wellbeloves tried. They always made me feel welcome at least. Like I belonged, even at that posh club of yours. My future felt safe, stable. I liked that. I liked that more than Agatha.”

“Do I not make you feel you belong?” he whispers. “With me?”

“You’re the only place where I feel I belong, Baz. The only place where I fit. But that’s when it’s just you and me. When you add the world back in, it gets a lot more complicated,” I sigh.

“So it was more than jealousy or feeling like you were weak tonight?” he asks me. He’s hit a nerve, and I can feel my tail start to whip around in agitation, even if it’s invisible for the moment.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say begrudgingly. “Tonight was amazing, until it wasn’t. The minute that bloke started to hit on you, I could feel the anger welling in me. I mean I didn’t want him to touch you, didn’t want to think of him ever touching you, but why was it so easy for him to dismiss me like that? I mean I was practically shagging you on the dancefloor tonight. Wasn’t it clear that I was with you? That you were mine?”

“I’d like to think so, yes,” he responds.

“So what didn’t he think so? And why did you let him around you like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you wanted him there?”

“I did no such thing, Snow. I knew he was there, flirting with me, but I could also tell he was drunk. I didn’t want to provoke him, so I just planned to ignore him as best I could until you came back.”

“But you didn’t tell him to back off,” I try again. I didn’t realize that bugged me as much as it did until now.

“Does that matter?” Baz asks.

“Yes, it bloody well matters. At least to me,” I shout. And it feels like all of my agitation and anger wells back up at that moment.

Baz at least takes a moment to looked surprised by my reaction before he schools his features again.

“Simon, I didn’t hide the fact that we were together from anyone on that dance floor. Quite the opposite. What did you want me to do?”

“I wanted you to, I don’t know,” I say pulling on my hair furiously. “Stand up for me, maybe.”

“Rescue you?”

“No, dammit, Baz, not rescue me. I told you, I don’t need to be rescued or pitied. But just have the decency to back me up when I ask some wanker to get away from you. I looked like your toy, someone you could control. I want you by my side not standing above me. I always feel like you’re above me.”

“Snow, I’m always above you. I’m taller . . .”

“I mean like metaphorically, you wanker,” I say, my frustration mounting, “Like you’re better than me, always looking down on me, showing me the what I’m doing wrong or saying wrong. I don’t know. I just don’t feel like your equal when we’re out in public. And that hurts.”

He looks at me as if I’m finally lost my mind.

“I think you’re the most amazing person I know,” he says, then shakes his head. “But I know I act like an entitled snob more often than not because I am an entitled snob. And old habits are hard to break. I never want to make you feel beneath me. At least not since we started this.”

I nod. I’m not sure if I feel better yet, but my anger has faded a bit. I don’t feel it itching beneath the surface like I have since I’ve gotten home. I think I finally got a few things off my chest. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. We sit and stare at each other. It’s like we’re back to fifth year Watford, the air full of tension, each daring the another to make the first move.

Baz gives in first. He gets to his feet and walks back into the flat, leaving the door open. I take it as my invitation to follow.

He is standing in front of the bookshelf fiddling with something. I can’t see what. I’m not sure what to do—I don’t know how to approach him now. It’s usually so easy, but I feel raw and unsure. I go to put my hands in my pockets and notice that I’m still in bloody shirt. Well, at least I can fix that, so I do, and pull the shirt over my head and toss it on the floor.

“I didn’t expect a show, Snow, but I can’t deny that the view is lovely,” Baz says. He’s wearing his classic smirk and raised eyebrow. I used to hate it. Not anymore.

“The blood,” I say pointing to the shirt. “Figured it was time I finally got rid of it.” He nods and turns back to his task, whatever it is.

“What’re you doing?” I ask, walking over to him but still keeping some distance between us.

“When I was younger and had a particularly bad day, Fiona would always cheer me up with a song. I hated it at first, but I always felt better by the time it was over.”

“What song?”

“That’s for you to find out,” he says finally turning back to me.

**Baz**

When the opening chords start to play, Simon looks confused and then slowly breaks out into a grin.

“I love this song,” he says.

“Who doesn’t?” I say and grin back. It’s “Come on Eileen,” and no Brit can resist it. The opening chords play and then it’s all stomping and shouting until it’s over. “Want to dance, Simon Snow?”

“Baz, I don’t really feel like dancing anymore tonight.”

“Suit yourself,” I say and start to move and sing along with the words. I smile thinking of all the times Fiona got me to sing and dance myself silly to this song, her making a right fool of herself along with me. It’s our special ritual, and it always helps brighten my mood. I never thought I’d share it with anyone else. But it’s Simon. I’d do anything to see him happy.

Simon looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind, so I go all in. I pull out my most obnoxious football goal celebration, dropping on my knees pumping my fists. I channel Fiona and swing my hair like a headbanger. I jump back up and raise the roof.

“Too ra loo ra too ra loo rye aye,” I sing at the top of my lungs.

He finally breaks, laughing and singing as he joins me in this ridiculous show. We dance and sing and jump and stomp until the end of the song. We both collapse on the couch, breathing hard and laughing.

“I told you it’d make you feel better,” I say and elbow him in the ribs.

“I’ve never seen you look so ridiculous, Baz,” Simon laughs.

“Watch it, Snow,” I say menacingly.

“What? I loved it.”

“I love you,” I respond taking his hand in mine, intertwining our fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Me, too,” I respond.

“I told you I’m a terrible boyfriend,” he says.

“Well, it’s not like I’m going to win top in class for my behavior,” I respond. “I think we’re both pretty shite at this right now.”

He laughs at that.

“What I do know is that you are my everything, Simon Snow, and I hope I can be yours. It’s all I want, all I’ve ever wanted.”

He doesn’t respond, just leans in, turns my head and kisses me gently. And my entire body responds, catching fire at his touch. Wanting more, I pull him over so that he’s straddling my lap. He puts his arms around my neck and finally kisses me thoroughly and completely.

“So this is this our future then? Living in a Victorian mansion, dancing to “Come on Eileen,” and snogging on the couch?”

“Well, at least the dancing and the snogging. I’m actually not too fond of Pitch Manor myself—too many blasted gargoyles.”

Simon responds with another kiss, biting my bottom lip. It gives me chills (even though I don’t think I can technically get chills) but doesn’t douse the fire that’s coursing through my veins.

“There’s other things you know,” I say when we finally part.

“Mmm?” he mumbles as he worries a particularly sensitive spot on my neck.

“Other things in our future,” I say. “Like more snogging. And shagging. Lots of shagging (he nips my neck at that). Lazy mornings in bed. Dinners with Bunce (and with my family, sadly). Traveling—I want to show you Paris. Spells and magic. Arguments and celebrations. Just us living, Simon.”

Simon has stopped his ministrations on my neck and is now staring at me. I have no idea what he’s thinking.

“Just living?” he asks.

“Yes. I just want to live my life with you. I never thought we’d have this chance, and I don’t want to lose it.”

“Well, that sounds like something,” he says with smile.

It’s my turn to kiss him thoroughly and completely.

**Simon**

All of my anger has finally left, and I feel OK. Not like I did after my magic went off. I'm not burnt or empty. Instead I feel bright, clean inside. Is this what hope feels like? I’ve never really thought about it before. I always just assumed I’d fight my enemies and maybe survive. Nothing beyond that. But thinking about more of this with Baz, traveling to Paris, a future. Together. It must be what hope feels like.

“You are, you know,” Baz says bringing me back to the moment.

“What?” I ask.

“Beneath me. Always. By at least 3 inches.”

“Wanker,” I say, pushing him away playfully.

“Nightmare,” he says and pulls me in for another kiss.

Yeah. This is far from nothing. This is something. No. It’s everything.


End file.
